FT 

MEADE 


PS 3503 
. E54 $8 
1919 
Copy 2 

! Stories 

l 

| of the 

I Catskills 




| SongsandLays 

( toy 

Wm. ^enignus 

\ An AMERICAN BOOK 

| by an AMERICAN POET 

i 

\ PRICE 50 CENTS 







The Valley Green 

It 5 

A Springtime and Blossom Song 
By Wm. Benignus 

I wandered in May thru a valley green — 
there flowed of brooks the fleetest, 
in mellow tunes of love, I ween, 
the bellbirds sang their sweetest ; 
a jubilee which hovered long 
o’er woods and wildernesses. 

a sunny, joyful springtime song, 
that trembled with caresses. 

The southwind blew with sound so soft, 

as if he loved to tarry, 

he shook the appletree-boughs aloft 

in banter kind and merry, 

that to the grass like purest snow 

white blossom-show’rs were trailing; 

and in the sky in shimm'ring row 
bright silver-clouds were sailing. 

Still oft I hear, like far, clear chimes, 
the valley’s voices calling 
in fervent, blending, tender rhymes, 
and blossoms I see falling. 

Such happiness, with life intense, 
what future time can give it? 

Yet, tho ’t is gone forever hence, 
it was worth while to live it! : 



Neperan Brook Valley, at the foot of Pocantico Hill , Haivthorne 
Neiv York , May 21, and May 22, 19 1U. 

Hundreds of American Wood Thrushes or Bellbirds, perch- 
ing upon the blossoming trees, flung rapturously out their golden 
melodies into the sunny blue of the height. 


MAY 15 1919 (§, Cl. A 5 2 6609 


'wc V 


Song of the Fairy Flower and the Goldbirdie 


Coocoo 

Lulaby. — By Wm. Benignus 



Out in the garden a fairy flower is blooming; 
thru the open garden gate a breeze soars, child mine, 
rocks the fairy flower that it rings like the tolling 
of a little silver-bell, so clear and so fine: 

“Coocoo, Coocoo, Coocoo my Coocoolee! 

Coocoo, Coocoo, sleep, Coocoo mine!” 

Flies a goldbirdie wee right in thru the open window, 
perches near and looks at you with kindly eyes, my dear, 
cocks its little golden head to one side so smartly, 
sings like a little silver-bell, so fine and so clear: 

“Coocoo, Coocoo, Coocoo my Coocoolee! 

Coocoo, Coocoo, sleep, Coocoo dear!” 


Set to music for scmgvoice and piano by Hermann Spielter 


Wm. Benignus 

Spring below Three Mile Camp 

Shawangunk Mountains, near Ellenville, Ulster Co., N. Y., 1915 



With Joyous Voice Sings a Nightingale 

Morning Song, by Wm. Benignus 



With joyous voice sings a nightingale: 

its song floats richly away 
and wakes up the echoes in glen and 
dale. 

and it hail$ the glorious day, 
it hails the day, the glorious day 
and the King of the Golden Rays. 


A fiddler gay hears the joyous song: 

he lifts his fiddle to play, 
and a rich stream of melodies flows 
along, 

and he hails the glorious day, 
he hails the day, the glorious day 
and the King of the Golden Rays. 


Set to music for chorus, violin and piano by Eduard Herrmann, 
and for s?ngvoice and piano by Victor Neustadtl. 


Stories of the Catskills 

Songs and Lays 

By 

Wm. Benignus 

Copyright, Washington, D. C., 1919, by Wm. Benignus 
All Rights Reserved 



Index 


Page 


The Valley Green Cover II 

Coocoo. Lulaby 1 

Spring below Three Mile Camp 2 

With joyous voice sings a nightingale 2 

Dedication 4 

Butterfly Country 4 

1. Sunbeam Brook 5 

2. Ashokan Reservoir and Catskill 

Aqueduct 7 

Dreaming Soul 7 

3. The Campfire 8 

Then .. 8 

4. The Air of Liberty 9 

On Gray Ledge 10 

5. The Woodwoomly 12 

Children of the Light 15 

6. October and November „. 16 

The Fall Woods 16 

American Singers. Songs and Lays IS 

Robin Redbreast’s Call 18 


Page 


"Kong-quer-ree !” 18 

Bobolink 18 

Yellow- throated Vireo 18 

American Wood Thrush 18 

Song of the Starling 18 

The Pear Tree 18 

Two finches on a fir-tree bough 18 

I heard a little bluebird sing 18 

The American Bluebird’s Lay 19 

The Song of the Bubbling Brook 20 

The Sleeping Mountain Giant 21 

Shawangunk. Storm Song 24 

The Shawangunk Mountains and 

“Shawangunk Mountain Stories” 24 

The Isle of Regret 22 

The Words of the Voice 23 

This life is like a theatre-play 23 

Purple and Gold 23 

The Spirit Lake Cover III 

The Might of the Hudson Cover IV 


3 * 

♦ 

Notice : — Lack of funds prevented me to illustrate the stories with six fine 
pictures, from photographs after nature. To have six halftone plates made and to 
add twelve more pages to the book, would have been an additional expense of $55.00 

My “Stories of the Catskills” have appeared in the columns of the “Altoona 
Tribune”. I thank Col. Henry W. Shoemaker for his permission to reprint them 
in this book under my copyright. — W. B. 



1 


+ 4 * 


Dedication 

This little book, as a result of my direct observations and experi- 
ences, contains a few short “Stories of the Catskills”. I wrote them 
to amuse Sun Children of all ages, myself included. Sun Children 
are always young and happy. Music is in their hearts, which are 
ever alight by the Star of Pure Joy. The souls of Sun Children are 
woven from sunrays. Sun Children’s souls are made of the holy fire 
of the Life Sun, they are aglow with the love for imperishable beauty. 
Perennial Spring shines in their eyes with a bright light. 

Lovers they are of God’s golden sunshine and of God’s free air, 
of the green hills, mountains and vales with fields of wild flowers, with 
woods, meadows, running brooks and shimmering lakes, and of God’s 
wide oceans under the blue, blue sky. 


I dedicate this book 
to all 

Sun C h i 1 d r e n 

and specially to 

My Dear Friend 

Gro-won-go Mohawk 

the Indian Actress 



Go-won-go Mohawk and her buckskin horse Buclcy 
“They are coming to take you from me. I hate to part with you 
old Pal.” — Edgewater , New Jersey , April 1919. 


Butterfly Country 

e A beautiful, pearl-dotted butterfly 

flutters and floats in a dazzling blue sky. 

I see a bridge of amber span 
a black abyss unknown to m^n, 
and across the bridge to a castle white 
on a flame-red horse rides a noble Knight. 

— Wm. Benignus 


* 5 * 


Sunbeam 


Brook 


Story of the Catskills, No. 1 
By Wm. Benignus 


From its mouth in New York bay to 
its sources in the Adirondacks the Hud- 
son River gladdens the heart, widens 
the mind, lifts the spirit of the voyager 
by the ideal vistas it presents, by its 
freedom and space and beauty. Every 
mile forms a transient panorama of 
mountains, lowlands, sleepy villages and 
cities pulsing with energy and purpose. 

If you travel up the Hudson in the 
fine old summer time with one of the 
palatial Hudson River Day Line Steam- 
ers “Washington Irving” or “Hendrick 
Hudson” or “Robert Fulton” or “Al- 
bany”, which glide, like white swans, 
majestically, smoothly and fast over the 
shining waterway, you enjoy to your 
heart’s content innumerable scenic de- 
lights from the Palisades to the northern 
gate of the massive Highlands. In a 
short time then the steamer brings you 
to Kingston Point or Rondout Landing, 
the entrance gate of two of New York’s 
most romantic Mountain chains, the 
Shawangunk Mountains, south, and the 
Catskill Mountains, north, separated by 
the Rondout Creek which at Rondout 
joins the Hudson. A train of the “Uls- 
ter and Delaware Railroad” awaits the 
travelers right at the pier and brings 
them, as it did me in late summer, 1917, 
to Stony Hollow, eight miles from Ron- 
dout. 

From Stony Hollow station I walked 
through the ravine along the new State 
Road, passed an old church which stood 
on the right of it, then took the Morgan 
Hill Road, which branches off to the 
left. The new State Road leads farther 
on to West Hurley, nine miles from Ron- 
dout and 540 feet above the sea. Morgan 
Hill Road, a quiet mountain road, led 
me up a hill, through the forest, past 
a few pleasant looking solitary houses, 
amongst them, on the right, a school 
house, to the ten acre farm of my friend, 
Mr. H. K.-R. whose invitation I had 
followed to stay at his place a few weeks, 
take it easy and recuperate from my 
two months of strenuous work on a fruit 
farm near Newburgh-on-the-Hudson. 

I have seen many interesting places, 
yet K.’s farm was a pleasant surprise 


and held me spellbound. It looked like 
a place where poets and fairies dwell. 
It is a spot where the mountain breezes 
inspire you with a sense of strength and 
new life. From any vantage point, and 
there are many, the land revealed new 
wonders of hill and valley, brook and 
meadow, trees and rocks, mountains and 
sky. 

Later on, making a tour of discovery, 
I investigated the secrets of the immense 
stone quarries near the farm. These 
quarries lay now in solitude and silence 
and no more reverberate from the noise 
and the turmoil of engines and the hust- 
ling of hundreds of workers which left 
them, just as they are, with giant stone 
piles all around telling their mute tale 
of once louder times. Back of the farm, 
surrounded by the primeval forest, one 
of these big stone piles rises up. From 
its wind-swept top a splendid view of 
the Catskill range, with Overlook Moun- 
tain, offers itself to the admiring eyes. 
At the foot of Overlook Mountain scin- 
tillates in the sunrays the great “Asho- 
kan Reservoir”, which supplies New 
York City with pure water. 

Sunbeam Brook, a mountain brook, 
whose source is deep in the great stone 
quarry, flows through the farm along 
the edge of the woods. A large bed of 
Blue Iris borders the bank of the brook 
near the forest primeval, and hemlocks, 
hazels and pines reflect themselves pen- 
sively in the mirroring water. There, 
where the Iris flowers grow, busy hands 
have enlarged the bed of the brook to a 
broad bathing pool which looks, this Blue 
Iris Pool, for all like a dream from 
Japan transplanted to the region of the 
Catskills. There I mused and listened 
to the tale of the wavelets. “Do you 
know,” they lisped and chattered merri- 
ly, “do you know, poet, we had quite 
some fun this summer. Who do you 
think was with us all the time, when 
the Sun King made even us cool fellows 
feel hot and uneasy under the showers 
of his scorching rays? The city folks 
came to us and felt better in the re- 
freshing embrace of our lingering arms, 
and the tired and the sick people came 


4 6 4 


.and sat in this pool for hours and hours 
and enjoyed our hospitality and became 
healthy and happy. But the grandest 
fun we had when a lot of jolly Sun 
Children jumped and splashed around 
and made the welkin ring with their glad 
•chattering and singing and laughter. 


The Sunbeams and the Sun Children 
danced there with us Ringelringel.” 

Thus sang to me the wavelets in their 
many moods, and while they hurried 
glisteningly along and bubbled and pearl- 
ed I heard in their silvery chorus Alfred 
Lord Tennyson’s immortal song of 


X tie Brook: 

4 -?$\ 


I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally, 
and sparkle out among the fern, 
to bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
or slip between the ridges, 
by twenty thorps, a little town, 
and half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
to join the brimming river, 
for men may come and men may go, 
but I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I bubble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
by many a field and fallow, 
and many a fairy foreland set 
with willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
to join the brimming river, 
for men may come and men may go, 
but I go on forever. 


I wind about and in and out, 
with here a blossom sailing, 
and here and there a lusty trout, 
and here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
upon me, as I travel 
with many a silvery waterbreak 
above the golden gravel. 

And draw' them all along, and flow 
to join the brimming river, 
for men may come and men may go, 
but I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
that grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the metted sunbeams dance 
against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
in brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shining bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses. 


And out again I curve and flow 
to join the brimming river, 
for men may come and men may go, 
but I go on forever. 



* 7 * 


Thie Ashokan Reservoir 

arl(: j Story of the Catskills, No . 2 

The Catskill Aqueduct By Wm - B _Y^1 


From Kingston, Ulster Co ., N. Y., the 
quiet but busy city on the Rondout 
Creek and on the Hudson, a ten mile 
trip, west, with the auto along the new 
State Road, brings you, past the towns 
of West Hurley and Woodstock, the 
celebrated Artist’s Colony, to the Asho- 
kan Reservoir at the base of the Catskill 
Mountains. 

Along the Morgan Hill Road, leading 
from the new State Road to K.’s farm 
and to the old stone quarries, there are 
several vantage points upon the adjoin- 
ing hills, from which the shimmer of 
the Reservoir’s waters and Overlook 
Mountain, the towering giant, standing 
guard,' can be seen. 

The great Ashokan Reservoir, which 
supplies New York City with pure water, 
is 610 feet above the sea. It is 12 miles 
long and 2 miles wide, and holds 120,- 
000,000 gallons. Four creeks constitute 
its main sources of supply: The Esopus, 
Rondout, Schoharie and Catskill. The 


total area of the entire watershed is over 
nine - hundred square miles, and the 
supply in Catskill water will exceed 
800,000,000 gallons daily. About 500,- 
000,000 gallons flow to the city every 
day, a distance of 120 miles thru the 
big main. On the way four large lakes 
are formed, filled with the purest water. 

From its height in the mountains the 
conduit sinks under the rivers to a depth 
of 1114 feet below the sea, breaks thru 
the solid rock of Manhattan Island and 
distributes the precious water in abund- 
ance to every dwelling of New York City. 
The natural pressure lifts the water to 
the 12th story. It was necessary to 
bore the tunnel under the city thru solid 
rock to a depth of 300 to 800 feet. The 
cost of this great undertaking was esti- 
mated at $162,000,000. 

Commenced in 1905 and finished in 
1917 this Catskill Aqueduct is a heroic 
deed of citizen’s pride, of scientific 
genius and of sacrificing work. 



Dreaming Soul 

A bird is twitt’ring under leafy roof 
at night upon a tree. 

What keeps the little bird awake aloof, 
what dream, full bright with glee? 

Dear little soul, dream on, with peace 

about. 

Dream on. The night is long. 

But when the day breaks goldenly, pour 

out 

your dream with jubilant song. 


8 ^ 


The Campfire 


Story of the Catskills , No. 3 
By Win. Benignus 


I can hardly imagine finer days than 
those clear ones late in August and in 
the beginning of September, when nature 
hereabouts still glories in the fulness 
of her strength, but already senses the 
time of the turning of the leaves and 
of the cold winds blowing from the reg- 
ions of the North. On some such days, 
on K.’s farm I arose with the sun, and 
before the sleepers in the house stirred 
I wended my way to the brook and 
crossed it above the spot where the 
water, in a miniature crystal fall, tum- 
bles down the rocks. On the little hill 
where the forest begins, I picked up dry 
sticks and started a comfortable fire, a 
camp-fire, to chase the chill away and 
warm up. 

The sky overhead brightened up with 
a message of promise and hope. The 
atmosphere pulsed with energy from the 
refreshing aromatic breath of the young 
morning. The dewdrops twinkled on 
the edges of the leaves and the tips of 
the grasses, and their glittering diamond 
and opal-pearls formed most beautiful 
designs of fairy-filligree on the cobwebs 
which the tireless spiders, to catch un- 
wary flies and other insects, had woven 
with inborn art on stems of weeds and 
on twigs of bushes in the still hours of 
the moonlit night. 

Deep in the woods a cowbell tinkled. 
The melodious sounds f.oated nearer and 
nearer. They came from the bell on the 
strap around Rosie’s ample neck. Rosie 
is the sleek-skinned black and white cow 
of the farm. Rosie spends the nights 
in the woods. In the summertime she 
prefers their coolness to the warm stable. 


Soon Rosie made her appearance, look- 
ing at me friendlylike with her big shin- 
ing eyes. Without fear she put her 
moist round blackish nose to the fire 
as if she wanted to investigate the my- 
sterious bright flames. Then she raised 
her head with the fine horns and sent 
out a plaintive Mooh-oohooh! Her cow- 
thoughts were probably running like 
this: “Milk me! It’s time! Get up, you 
lazy folks! Milk me! It’s time! So I 
can go to the meadow and the woods 
again to feed, to eat! Mooh-oohooh!” 
Whereupon she leisurely and with sure, 
measured steps started to go down the 
bank of the brook, crossed the water, 
went up to the barn and waited there 
for Moa, the farmer’s wife, to come and 
relieve her of her load of sweet, rich, 
nourishing milk. Rosie gave, on the 
average, 12 to 14 quarts of milk every 
day. 

Up towards the road I heard now the 
voices of the Sun Children, as I call the 
good folks on the farm. The Sun in the 
East climbed higher. A new day of 
beauty, wonders and healthsome exercise 
and work had begun, profusely scatter- 
ing opportunities of golden fortunes and 
rainbow-joys for all who cared and had 
the power of will and the strength of 
pure desire to grasp them firmly, to hold 
them fast and to use them kindly and 
wisely. The Spirits of Earth. Water, 
Air and Light, resplendent Genii, soared 
on shimmering wings and sang in a 
chorus of harmony and unity their ange- 
lic hymn of life and creation evemew 
and everlasting. 






Then 

I like to have a little house 

amongst the green, right near a brook, 

where no more ravens of care arouse, 

but bird-songs in this quiet nook 

and forest-whispers sooth. How fair 

this world were with such blessings rare ! 


* 9 * 


The Air of Liberty stor V/ 7 ' 


In my younger days I heard and read 
so much about the United States of 
North America , that a longing seized 
me, which grew stronger and stronger, 
to see and study by personal experience 
this great and wonderful country and 
its free people. I carried out my pro- 
ject. The more I saw of this country, 
the more I liked it, and I began to love 
its beauty and its grandeur and the 
spirit of its people so much, that, in 
October, 1894, I took out my second 
papers in the Superior Court of New 
York City and am since then a citizen 
of the U. S. 

When I came to this country, 1882, 
I landed at Castle Garden, in New York, 
and soon went west. I learned the barber 
trade in Chicago and worked at this 2 
years. In 1884 I quit and started at 
once on my pilgrimage. My heart ached 
for the West, for the lure of the open 
trail. Four years, from 1884 to 1888, 
I travelled steadily, a lone voyager, thru 
this wonderland of my desire. To make 
30 to 40 miles a day on foot, was, at 
that time, noways much of a hardship 
for an athletic young fellow like me. 
Sometimes walking, often beating trains, 
I made my way, under many hardships 
and privations, from New York to San 
Francisco, from Milwaukee to New Or- 
leans and Jacksonville, and up north 
again to Washington, Baltimore and 
Philadelphia, concluding my roundtrip 
in New York. Of course, I did not al- 
ways let my hapds rest idle during my 
journey. So I worked one whole summer 
as farmhand, two miles south of Milwau- 
kee, Wise., and at similar jobs. One 
summer I worked as hoister and tapper 
in Best Brewery's Bottling Department 
in Milwaukee. Then I went to Western 
Wisconsin and helped the farmers bring 
in their harvest of wheat, oats and corn 
and assisted on the threshing machine. 
After that was done I went to Chicago 
and worked as kitchenman in a big hotel. 

I paid my fare to Saint Louis and 
rode as far into Oklahoma as my money 
reached. Oklahoma was in 1884 still a 
Territory and its broad acres, its rivers 
and its woodlands, rich in game, were 


still owned by their rightful owners, 
the Indians. In Oklahoma, I found a 
job as sectionhand on the Saint Louis 
& San Francisco R. R. at Mingo Station, 
where Mr. William Sweeney, an Amer- 
ican of Irish descent, was section boss. 
I worked there a month, then quit, turned 
back and rode to Kansas City, where I 
again worked as barber in a little shop 
near Union Station, below the bluff and 
close to the Mississippi. My boss was 
an educated, gentlemanly elderly mulat- 
to. When I left this job I started im- 
mediately on my big journey of several 
thousand miles thru the United States. 

From Kansas City, ever heeding the 
beckoning Sun that sank evening after 
evening as a glowing golden ball behind 
the horizon of the luring West, I follow- 
ed the shining steel track of the Union 
Pacific R. R. and walked, mostly making 
30 to 35 miles a day and often as my 
daily meal only some crackers or a few 
pieces of wheat bread, thru the prairies 
of the State of Kansas to Denver, Colo-, 
came to Cheyenne, then to Ogden, passed, 
on foot, the northern marshland of the 
Great Salt Lake, beat my way on freight 
trains thru the State of Wyoming and 
100 miles across the vast Nevada Desert, 
crossed the Rocky Mountains, came to 
Sacramento and then arrived, weather- 
beaten, but hale and sound, in San Fran- 
cisco, the Queen City of the Pacific at 
the Golden Gate. 

In San Francisco I worked one month, 
taking care of two horses. Then I quit 
and struck out for Los Angeles, passed, 
in beating the Southern Pacific Railroad 
riding on the rods and breakbeams under 
the cars, the great deserts of Arizona 
and New Mexico, came thru Texas and 
arrived, late in the fall, in Saint Louis, 
Mo. In Saint Louis I settled down for 
the winter. That winter was one of the 
hardest I ever went thru- I earned my 
living as coal carrier. To handle the 
big, heavy lumps of soft coal is not 
exactly fun. It was the winter when the 
Mississippi froze so solid that you could 
walk across the ice from, the Levee to 
East Saint Louis. By the way, I often 
beat my way from New York City tq 


<* 10 * 


Philadelphia, Harrisburg, Altoona, Fort 
Wayne and Chicago. It generally took 
me two weeks- So the return trip. Up 
the Horse Shoe Curve , near Altoona, 
Pa., I walked up the mountain along 
the steel tracks of the Pennsylvania R.R. 
or rode the bumpers on the cars, just 
as the opportunity offered itself. Snug- 
gled right into the bend of the big Horse- 
shoe, right into the mountain’s arms, 
shimmers the headwater of the Juniata 
River. There the underground waters 
from the enclosing mountain, giving the 
Juniata its origin, collect and form the 
reservoir which supplies the City of Al- 
toona with drinking water. Having 
passed thru the steam-hot tunnel on top 
of Bald Eagle Mountain and arrived in 
the beautiful valley at the mountain’s 
base, I sometimes stopped there for a 
while and visited a good farmer who had 
many bee-hives. For doing a little 
wood-chopping he regaled the traveler 
with a square meal and delicious honey. 

On these my explorations and wander- 
ings time flew and vanished. Week days 
or Sundays were all one to me. Dates 
I knew not. I merely lived in a care- 
free joy “to be alive”. I absorbed in 
my soul wonder after wonder of this 
grand country, “God’s Country ”, the 
U. S. — The “Air of Liberty ” welled 
around me, caressed me, pulsed in my 
veins, streamed thru me, e^c trifled me, 
filled my being. Of this exstacy of youth 
and existence my illustrated poetical 
work about select American Landscapes 
“Stimmen der Wasser” — “Voices of the 
Waters”, bears witness. This book, and 
each of my other books, is my tribute 
and expression of gratefulness to the 
souls who have been kind to me on my 
earthly pilgrimage. And in return for 
their kindness I give to these good souls 
my books as the spiritual gift of my 
own soul, of my self ; for all that, I give 
them also to those who have not been 
kind to me, and give them to all who 
care to read books that ring true. 

The “Air of Liberty” ! I recall one 
memorable incident. One fair summer 
day, as I wandered thru Kansas, I stop- 
ped on the outskirts of a village where 
a willow-bordered creek flowed thru the 
prairie. There, tired from the walk 
along the railroad track, I sat on the 
beams of a solitary watertank built 
close by the track of the Union Pacific 
R. R. No human being was near. The 
air was still, but felt as if charged with 
electric energy. This Prairie Air! This 


free, pure pulsating Prairie Air! Full 
and deep I breathed it- I inhaled it 
like nectar from Elysium, I actuary 
drank its balsam in deep, long draughts 
as my chest rose and fell, rose and fell 
rhythmically. Aye, this was the “Air 
of Liberty”, elating my being and cre- 
ating an exquisite feeling of vigorous 
and rejoicing life. 

This recital of my youthful experience 
may pass as an introduction to the fol- 
lowing story of the Catskills which in- 
spired me by this same “Air of Liberty” 
that, years ago, gladdened my soul. 

Sj5 j|{ s|s 5|! sjs 


On “Gray Ledge” 

On a late August afternoon I took a 
lonely stroll along the forest path which 
leads to the big stone quarry in the rear 
of K.’s farm. I scaled the rocks and 
climbed upon a broad plateau, consisting 
of innumerable broken stone plates. This 
rock-hill is called “Gray Ledge” by the 
people of the neighborhood. From the 
height of this plateau I visioned an ex- 
hilarating panorama of wooded hills and 
meadowed valleys in undulating billows 
of colors, of the softly contoured Cats- 
kill Mountains in the West, with a 
glimpse of the Ashokan Reservoir at the 
foot of Overlook Mountain. 

On this plateau the mountain breezes, 
in passing, playfully weave the charm 
of their chants around the listener, or 
in stronger and more insistent tunes, 
the wild free winds of heaven whiz and 
toss your curls about (if you have any), 
color your cheeks with the glow of 
health, whistle into your ears the pilgrim 
tales of their far journeys into the mys- 
tery of the distance and sing to you in 
chorus the enticing songs of the “Air of 
Liberty”. Here, on this wilderness 
airie, peace reigns supreme, rest invites 
you for which you longed, and life pulses 
and throbs around you with a still but 
compelling force, which makes you sense 
the presence of the “Great Spirit ” to 
whom the Indians paid reverence, whom 
the Jews name “Jehovah”, to whom the 
Christians pray as “God”, “The Lord”, 
the Turks as “Allah”, the Japanese as 
“Buddah”. Here you feel the spirit- 
touch of the “Unfathomable One”, the 
powerful “ World Will”, whom even the 
honest Free-thinker does not deny, of 


* 11 * 


‘'Him” whose riddles and secrets no 
human soul can solve, of “Him”, who 
simply is, as the Psalmist sings, and 
to whose praise the Irish bard Thomas 
Moore has struck the- harp-chords so 
beautifully in his sacred song 

“Thou Art, O God” 

Thou art, o God, the life and light 
of all this wondrous world we see; 
its glow by day, its smile by night, 
are but reflections caught from thee; 
where’er we turn, thy glories shine, 
and all things fair and bright are thine. 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
among the opening clouds of even, 
and we can almost think we gaze 
thru golden vistas into heaven, 
those hues, that make the sun’s decline 
so soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
o’ershadows all the earth and skies, 
like some dark, beauteous bird, whose 

plume 

is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, 
that sacred gloom, those fires divine, 
so grand, so countless, Lord! are thine. 

When youthful spring around us 

breathes, 

thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; 
and every flower the summer wreathes 
is born beneath thy kindling eye. 
Where’er we turn, thy glories shine, 
and all things fair and bright are thine. 





In the realms of such thoughts as 
these of Thomas Moore, time and space 
disappear before the shine of the Inner 
Light, and the soul of man becomes 
gifted to look with a seer’s power into 
unlimited spaces of most wonderful 
heavens. 

Towards the West the Sun slowly 
sank in a mellow sea of gold. As the. 
Sun King, with a last benign look, was 
about to depart, the floating clouds set 
a crown of purple roses above his glow- 
ing brow, upon his flaming curls. 

Smilingly, high from the shining 
clouds, the soul-giving Ether, the kind 
Spirit Father, with “good-night” wishes 
bent himself down to the great tired 
child, the Earth. His words of blessing 
whispered softly in the breezes, stirred 
lightly the leaves and grasses and rang 
out in the songs of some wood thrushes 
or bellbirds which, in the fading glory 
of the sky, perched on the topmost bran- 
ches of tall hemlocks, hickorys and pines 
in the forest below me. As I turned, 
homeward bound, their singing was as 
the playing of a learned and lonesome 
musician who in a secluded old church 
renders on the organ a hymn of Per- 
fect Love. 


\ x r 




* 12 « 


The Wood w oo mly By Wm. Benignus 


Talking of elves, fays or fairies, who 
are sprites of the fields and woods, 
spirits of the earth and air, I believe 
that many of them reside on every hill 
and mountain - farm of the Catskills. 
Most of these strange beings are good- 
natured and do nobody harm, on the 
contrary, they do good turns to the 
people on the places where they live 
and find their own pleasures therein. 

The sprites have homes, altho these 
homes are different from those in which 
men dwell, and seldom privileged humans 
are allowed by the fairies themselves to 
discover and behold the sprite homes 
and fairy-palaces. 

They have their homes, these sprites, 
as men have, and as even the wild ani- 
mals have, such as rabbits, foxes, wood- 
chucks, deers; and as the birds have, 
such as sparrows, bluebirds, wrens, 
robins, thrushes and others. Sprites do 
not stray far from the homes of their 
selection. The same as birds. Birds do 
not fly far away from their nests. For 
instance, the water fowl never leaves 
the pond or pool where it has built its 
nest, except when the time comes to 
change climate. The ever hungry hawks 
and owls, altho they fly long distances, 
seldom cross the border of the land 
which they can see from the tops of the 
trees on which their nests or perches 
are- Eagles and vultures cover in their 
flight immense distances to still their 
hunger and feed their young ones, but 
they always return home to their nests. 
Seabirds fly very far; farthest among 
them flies the Albatross, soaring on out- 
spread powerful wings and following 
the ships over the foaming waves. 

This instinct to have a home is in the 
breasts of us all. Birds go at it with 
a will. Watch the joyous voyagers in 
the spring, when they arrive from the 
South at the old places, which they re- 
member so well. The first thing they 
do is to give vent to their feelings with 
ringing jubilations. Then the mating 
birds settle down to business without 
waste of time and soon have their nest 
ready, very cozy and fitting their needs. 


The same with us, or at least with most 
of us modern humans. We like to have 
a place which we can call peculiarly and 
intimately our own, where we can have 
things exactly as we like them and want 
them, a home whicch is our retreat, our 
castle, our paradise, a place which should 
be sacred to the guest. 

4 ^. 

The kindly and goodnatured mountain 
sprite of “Sunbeam Brook Farm” also 
has a home on the farm. This sprite is 
a WOODWOOMLY. A Woodwoomly 
is a little fairy woman who makes the 
mountain woods her abode. Very few 
people ever see her. But you feel it 
sometimes that she is there after she 
has done you a good turn, as I felt it 
after a fierce rain- and thunderstorm 
which had raged on the place and in 
the neighborhood. After the storm had 
passed I went with Va, the farmer, to 
get drinking water at the well in the 
forest. The people around there call 
this well The Good Well because its 
water is so clear, cool and good. It wells 
up at the foot of a hill of stones which 
the quarrymen’s engine has piled up 
there. Not far from it grows a tall 
swampberry bush, a natural landmark 
on the woodpath to the well. On the 
swampy ground many old hoary trees 
are standing. We filled our pails with 
water and brought it to the house. About 
20 minutes later I went alone to the 
well to fetch another pail of drinking 
water, and there, right across the spot 
where we had dipped the water, a large 
tree had fallen, a forest giant. The top 
of it reached 10 feet over the well, the 
roots were at least 40 feet away straight 
in the opposite direction. There was no 
bark on the trunk, so old was the tree, 
but the wood was still very hard and 
solid- The old tree, loosened at the roots 
by the storm, had toppled over and 
crashed to the ground with its powerful 
weight, the while we were away. I guess 
it was, the sprite of the place , the Wood- 
woomly, who prevented the tree from 
falling while we were dipping water at 
the well. The day after this happened, 
I helped the farmer to saw off the top 


* 13 * 


of the tree and to clear the place of the 
obstruction. 

I met the Woodwoomly in the forest 
one summer afternoon. Going along a 
path where huckleberries grow profusely 
amongst the bushes in the direction of 
the quarry, I saw hobbling along towards 
me an old, bent, gray haired little 
woman. She walked with a hickory 
stick, clutched in her right hand as 
support. With the left hand she carried 
a willow - basket filled with big, fine 
huckleberries. “Good morning to you, 
good mother,” I said, “you have very 
fine berries there.” “The top o’ the 
momin to ye, me son. Yes, they be 
fine berries, sartinly,” she said, “and win 
ye go pickin fer yerself, may ye find 
plenty of thim, an fine ones too. Wher- 
ever ye go, be ye blessed, me son.” Hobb- 
ling away with her berries the little 
woman disappeared from my view behind 
the trees at the turn of the road and 
was gone-. 

The Woodwoomly, as I said, is a fairy. 
Therefore she has the power to appear 
in any shapet she likes to, at her will. 
The second time that I saw her was in 
a clearing of the woods, on a warm quiet 
evening when the full moon rose brilli- 
antly. She looked wondrously fair, the 
Fairy Queen. Her shimmering vestment 
was spun of fairy-silk and moonbeams. 
Her beautiful eyes shone kindly. She had 
a lovely face. Her rich hair fell over 
her white shoulders in long golden curls. 
On her head she wore a diadem of pearls 
with a large diamond whose rays blazed 
in all colors; of the rainbow above her 
brow. She held in her hand a sceptre, 
on top of which a magical star gleamed 
with a soft bluish light. The Queen of 
the Fairies was seated on a magnificent 
throne in the reception room of her 
palace built of mountain - crystal and 
ornamented with precious stones. Sweet 
nxusic floated thru the air. Seven rose- 
and lily-gardens adorned the fairy land- 


scape around the castle. In each of the 
seven gardens a fountain splashed, show- 
ering glistening drops upon ferns and 
Blue Iris flowers, striking playfully the 
iridescent wings of quickly dashing 
dragon flies and the snowwhite bodies 
of waterfays who gamboled and chased 
each other merrily in the lively element. 
A crew of her sprites surrounded the 
queen, queer and quaint folks all, many 
of them with gaudy butterfly wings, 
some with dusky bat-wings. I saw 
there sprites of all kinds, goblins with 
little glowing eyes, gnomes that live in 
the rocks, root-manikins, who live under 
the roots and pump the sap up into the 
trees and plants, and will-o'-the-whisps 
from the swamps and moors who can 
dance the most original dances- Two of 
these will-o’-the-whisps stood as long 
blue flames, six feet high, on each side 
of the throne; the others danced around 
it, bending, twisting, rocking, jumping, 
two together, three together, a dozen to- 
gether, advancing, dancing backward, 
advancing again with lightning-like rap- 
idity, swaying and swirling in circles, 
standing still, soon growing small, then 
very tall, dancing high up as if shot 
from guns, then dancing down. They 
approached the Queen, bowed low before 
her and arranged themselves in a res- 
pectful distance around the throne. 
“Fairy Queen,” I asked politely, “are 
you perhaps the good Woodwoomly whom 
I had the pleasure of meeting the other 
day on the path to the quarry?” “I am 
indeed, Poet, the Woodwoomly.” — the 
Queen replied pleasantly — “It is easy for 
me to disguise myself and appear to you 
in any form I choose. But only children 
and dreanjers can see me as Fairy 
Queen.” “Pardon me for questioning 
you again”, said I — “Are you always 
kind and good to folks?” “I am, and 
my subjects are,” said the Fairy — “Yet 
only as long as you folks yourselves are 
kind and good to others and things of 
creation.” 



* 14 * 


Man as Truth-Seeker, Riddle-Solver and 
Co-Worker with God, the Spirit 


if it 


In my talks with the Fairy Queen, she 
revealed to me many secrets of Nature. 
I was curious to know by what agency, 
“forms” are created. She gave me this 
explanation: “You speak of forms, I try 
to make clear to you what “/orm” means 
by quoting the words of a sky-roamer, 
Professor Edgar Lucien Larkin , Director 
of Mt. Lowe Observatory — : “Consider 
the oak. It is a thought form. Every 
space form is a thought form. Every 
thought form is created by Mind. Mind 
preceded the life which was its agent for 
assembling the molecules around it to 
build the acorn. Mind tvas first 
necessary to create a thought form of the 
tree. This holds good for every living 
creature under the sun. For ^Kapila 
said in his mud hut over near the con- 
f.uence of the Jumna and Ganges, many 
centuries before Christ, that thought 
forms have been filled out by matter. 
He was aware that Mind thought first . 
He said this in the intricate Samkhya 
system of philosophy. 

Mind moves everything. You cannot 
raise your hand or make a movement 
without first thinking. Mind was first. 
Mind is the base of all there is, of all 
that was, is and shall be. We think by 
induction. We are mind units of the 
“ Infinite Mind”. We still have to learn 
how to use the latent powers within us, 
the remarkable powers of mentation, now 
latent. These mighty powers are sleeping 
in man, they await their awakening. 
The field of mind possibilities is still 
unexplored. 

I have been projecting photographs 
of brain cells or nerve ganglia in brain 
tissues by high -power lenses on screens 
in my new science chambers to the com- 
plete astonishment of my classes and of 
myself. These complexes of nerve fibres 
are the thrones of mind. And the mind 
expressing therein has power to isolate 
and weigh one electron , next to the in- 
finitely small, and weigh five billion 


suns, some of them being two billion 
times larger than the earth . How mind 
functions in these minute centres of 
nerve radiation, and what mind is — these 
two are enigmas so completely inscrut- 
able that mentalists are baffled; they 
cannot master one fact relating to 
either.” 

“Form,” continued the Fairy, “is built 
by thought. Thought is expression of 
the mind. Mind, u The Word”, was first, 
thinks first, creates. The Supreme 
Mind or the World Will is the creator 
of the Universes.” 

I asked the Fairy about the star on 
her sceptre. She spoke thus: 

“This blue star consists of electrons, 
immeasurably small spheres in inconceiv- 
ably rapid motion. Free electrons, not 
yet in revolution around each other to 
form atoms, may constitute the hypo- 
thetical ether. Your learned scientists 
have knowledge of this. Knowledge is 
power. To use knowledge rightly is an- 
other thing. You see my dancers, watch- 
men and body guards, the will-o’-the- 
wisps? They are never at rest, but are 
centres of motion. Nothing is at rest in 
Nature while light is radiating* Light 
eternally radiating, is eternal, is He, the 
Master.” “Tell me, Fairy Queen,” I 
queried, “ by which magic of your wand 
do you produce things at your will and 
rule spirits? What is the nature of this 
power which you exercise?” “Poet,” she 
replied, “ to enlighten you I shall repeat 
part of a discourse of one of your wise 
men, whom I quoted before, Professor 
Edgar Lucien Larkin: “On the Ganges, 
India, in a small mud hut, Badarayana, 
the founder of Vedanta, said matter is 
alive, - not inert. In electricity positive 
and negative must be equal to establish 
equilibrium. Atoms known in their nor- 
mal state are in equilbrium. Still an enig- 
ma of science is the positive electricity 
pf atoms. Electrons are all negative 
and repel.” —You query me upon the 


- * 15 * 


nature of my power. I shall try to make 
it comprehensible to you. In the first 
place it is my will, the will of my mind, 
which accomplishes and does things. 
Secondly: the magic at my command re- 
sults from the action of controlled elec- 
tro-magnetic waves upon which gravita- 
tion is depending. By proper balance , 
the World Will keeps the Universes go- 
ing and in order. Another scientist, 
Professor Nipher, has made a very in- 
teresting experiment. By simply chang- 
ing the electrical potential of bodies he 
makes their gravitational attraction upon 


one another either vanish or become a 
repulsion at his will. Your chemists are 
boring at many riddles and are going 
to solve many. The dwellers on other 
stars are already making signals thru 
the ether to you. By and by you earth- 
men may bare world-old secrets of na- 
ture and have a better knowledge of the 
laws which govern the Universe, from 
the smallest atom to the largest sun. 
Then Man, as a worker and creator, in 
co-work with the Infinite Mind, forces 
matter to his will.” 



Children of the Light 

Sun Children, blessed by the Father, 
the Great Spirit, the Sun, the Light, Sun 
Children, you are also “Children of the 
Earth”, for out of the ground plants 
and all creatures seek the Light, like you. 
You are also “Children of the Water”, 
for out of the hidden depths and the 
darkness the waters seek the Light and 
shine and scintillate and bask and flow 
and ripple and sing and then rise and 
sail as brilliant clouds in the sunshine, 
rejoicing in the Light, like you- You 
are a 1 so “ Children of the Air”, which 
glories, a transparent, restless sea, where 
the free winds play, in the Light, like 
you. You are also “Children of the 
Fire”, for a holy fire burns in your souls 
a fire sprung from the Life-Light 
and one with God, like you, blessed 
‘ Children of the Light', ‘ God's Children \ 




* 16 * 


October and No vein 

The Fall Wood 


Story of the Catskills, No. 6 
[q By Wm. Benignus 



When Summer vanes the verdure- 
spirits of the mountains, hills and 
valleys slowly drop their white and gold 
embroidered emerald-garments and dress 
themselves pensively in the rich vest- 
ments of the year’s ripeness. All of a 
sudden, by the magical touch of the 
Master- Artist Nature, the autumnal 
world flares up in a pageant of resplen- 
dent colors full of beauty and loveliness. 
It was heralded by the aster and the 
goldenrod, it is headed, when in full 
swing, by the hardiest and fairest of 
the seasons floral children, the queen of 
autumn flowers, the gorgeous chrysan- 
themum. This pageant in glowing ton- 
ality starts when the leaves begin to fall. 

The Fall Woods! That means the open 
country. Suitably and warmly dressed 
one can enjoy it. It is a delight to go 
out into the open where the leave-twir- 
lers blow, the free winds, where your 
soul, gazing, dives like an eagle into the 
clear depths of the blue ether, where the 
horizon widens and the sweep of the 
vast distances draws you onward. Be a 
little kind to yourself then, dweller of 
the big city, for you are a Sun Child 
by birth and right, you should live as 
a Sun Child in God’s sunshine and in 
God’s free air. Allow yourself to take 
a few days vacation. Leave behind you 
for a while the fretful cares of the day 
and fare out into the country to behold 
the magnificance of the Fall Woods. Go 
over to Staten Island. How beautiful 
its woods look! Or go to Long Island , 
ride about as far as Islip or Ronkon- 
koma Station ; there Ronkonkoma Lake , 
deeply imbedded in a setting of sandy 
soil, glistens as a liquid saphire in the 
midst of a forest of brilliantly leafed 
wonder-oaks. Journey up the North 
River, the Hudson, on one of the Hudson 
River Day Line Steamers , and admire 
the flamelike coloring of the Highland 
Woods. Take a short cut to the Shawan- 
gunks or to the Catskills, or make a 
longer trip to the Adirondacks , or cross 
the river to the eastern shore and visit 
the Connecticut Mountains. If your soul 
is not entirely sere you will join the 
bright Spirit of Autumn, soar with him 


over forests and fields, with their lakes 
reflecting light and sky like jewels, with 
their rivers and brooks like silver orna- 
ments, and the whole wide area replete 
with miracles. 

When you return to life’s whirlpool, 
to the city, to take part again in the 
rude competition and in the merciless, 
cruel grinding struggle for existence, 
you take home with you in the shrine of 
your remembrance revelations of healthy 
pleasures and pure joys which will glad- 
den your heart during the long winter 
hours. Many say: “Life is too grim and 
hard, to let us think of other things than 
business. We have neither time nor 
money to take a vacation.” True, these 
people may have eyes to see beauty too, 
and they may feel with warm hearts. 
In a way they are right. It cannot be 
denied that the battle of life slowly crip- 
ples the soul, and it is a fact that poverty 
dwarfs, wrinkles and scars body and 
mind, that it crushes with heavy weight 
ideal endeavors, annihilates joyousness 
and very successfully clips the wings of 
the spirit . But there are other people 
who only see the heights from below and 
never lift a foot to climb the mountains 
of beauty to reach the height of light. 
For these the reason of their stagnate 
composure is : laziness, stupidity and 
ignorance. 

Stand upon a high prominence on a 
sunny day, Child of the Light, and let 
your gaze roam over the wonderland 
spread before you under the mellow 
autumn sky* Note in the vales and 
on the hills yonder the varied, but har- 
monious colors of the foliage. How the 
deep rich golden yellow of the maples 
glitters in the sunshine! The royal red, 
and the princely warm brown of the 
leaves of different kinds of oaks blaze 
like glimmering fires in broad stretches 
and patches. The vermilion and turkish 
red of the Sumach trees shows up re- 
markably prominent. Seen from afar 
the clumps of bushes and vines, of cle- 
matis, of poison ivy and Virginia creeper, 
twine like tendrils of tangled flames 
along the ground, cover rocks and rural 


* 17 « 


stone walls or creep up the trunks of 
trees. This intense display is softened 
by the perennial green of the needle- 
leafed trees and by bushes and shrubs 
with evergreen foliage. 

Watch from your height among the 
hills the Fall Woods when the winds 
are blowing and are rocking the tree 
tops to and fro, to and fro like masts 
of ships in a gale. Look, how the nimble 
fingers of the wind ghosts turn the my- 
riads of leaves incessantly. A rhythmi- 
cally undulating sea of leafage flames up 
in all its tints and hues of yellow-gold, 
orange and lemon,- — in all shades and 
variations of red, — crimson, scarlet, coral, 
ruby, russet and burgundy. Radiating 
light, it springs into motion, heaves up 


and down, sinks and rises, and billows 
away gloriously. 

When the winds settle and the Fall 
Woods come to rest and lay still, as in 
meditation, their beauty is comparable 
to a glowing sunset at sea of queenly 
rose, imperial purple and gold. 

There is endless variation nad action 
in this autumnal Drama of Nature. 
There is soul-lifting music in this grand 
color-symphony of the Fall Woods. Their 
flaming farewell flashes to men a prom- 
ise of reawakening and renewal when 
the cycle of the year has swung around 
again to Spring. 

New York City, November 1917. 


The American Bluebird’s Lay 

A, Song of the Sunny Seasons 
By Wm. Benignus 

At my hut’s door near to me 
rush of wings I heard. 

I looked, what it might be — 
a pretty little sky- blue bird. 

The wind of the gentle spring, 
which adorns with bloom the land 
when cold icicles no more cling, 
brought it with friendly hand. 

Upon a pole at rest 

sat the bluebird, so blithe and gay. 

Red was the singers breast, 
lovely sounded its lay: 

“Dear, dear, think of it.” 

Oh beautiful summer time! 

We floated with Love along, 
each day was a happy rhyme, 
work was made pleasant by song. 

The bluebirds then built a nest, 
soon chirruped their fledglings near. 

The male until late harvest 
its song sang of sweetest cheer. 

But when the wild winds of fall 
shook sharply the swaying trees, 
robbed roughly of leaves them all, 
it sang as a “Goodbye” this: 

“Far away, far away.” 


Set to music for songvoice and piano by Bugen Haile. 


* 18 * 


American Singers 

Robin Redbreast , Redwinged Blackbird , Bobolink , Yellow-throated 
Vireo, Wood Thrush or Bellbird, Starling , Finch, Bluebird . 
Songs and Lays. — by Wm. Benignus 


Robin Redbreast’s Call 

When the woods and the fields, still stiff 
from frost, 

are waiting for Winter to give up the 
ghost, 

then comes Robin Redbreast, carrols 
about, 

fills the air with its song, so merry and 
loud: 

“Never give up! 

Cheer up! Cheer up! 

Never give up ! 

Cheerily ! Cheerily ! Cheerily ! 
Cheerily ! Cheerily ! 

Cheer up! Cheer up! 

Never give up! 

Cheer up! Cheerily! Cheerily! Cheer up.” 

And the woods awake and the fields 
around, 

the grasses and flowers peep up from 
the ground, 

and the birds all come and the butter- 
flies all, 

when Robin Redbreast sends out his call : 
“Cheer up! Cheer up! 

Never give up! 

Cheer up! Cheerily! Cheerily! Cheer up.” 

“Kong-quer-ree !” 

When the Redwinged Blackbirds travel northward 
A Spring Lay. — By Wm. Benignus 

Strong March -winds with fierce, frosty 
breath 

across the land are sweeping, 
and, tarrying, some young buds yet 
dew up, with cautious peeping. 

Then northward in long, waving streams 
the redwinged blackbirds travel, 
flock following flock. Their air-call 
seems : 

brooks, singing over gravel. 

Where swamp-woods grow and reeds 
abound 

they stop, they are at home here. 

Their spring-call with its gladsome sound 
the world round fills with home-cheer: 
“‘Kong-quer-ree ! 

Kong-quer-ree!” 


Bobolink 

The journey was long from the sunny 
south, 

now, singer, you are at home; 

all danger has passed, with peace about 

down settle you, cease to roam: 

“Tink! 

Bobolink! Bobolink!” 

So boundless your joy! With willing 
mate 

you select a pond-tree tall 

to build a nest, and from morn till late 

you sing your rollicking call : 

“‘Tink! 

Bobolink! Bobolink!” 

Yellow-Tliroatecl Yireo 

Sweet-voiced bird with the yellow throat, 

returning to us from the South’s abode 

in the month of May, 

over summer to stay, 

deeply and richly so sing you, 

softly you sing and dreamily too: 

“See me! 

I’m here! 

Where are you?” 

Wood Thrush or Bellbird 

Lay: “A-e-o! A-e-o-lee ! A-e-o-lee-ee !” 

The bellbirds song above the woodland- 
dell 

rings out with sounds of sonorous golden 
bell, 

so sweet, that life’s loud turmoil they 
abate 

and chase away unholy strife and hate. 

The soul the sunset’s glorious wonders 
drinks, 

and dove-winged peace with benediction 
sinks 

to Earth down softly, brings this gift, 
the best: 

Night’s strengthening sleep and dream- 
less, blessed rest. 


* 19 * 


I heard a little bluebird sing 

Set to music for songvoice and piano 
by Adalbert Schuler 

4=^. 

I heard a little bluebird, singing 
it sat upon a spray in bloom; 
of Spring it was a message bringing 
that chased away the winter’s gloom. 
The song so sweet heralded May, 
when Love it’s sceptre is swinging, 
it made my heart so glad and gay, 
deep joy and bliss was bringing 
the bluebird’s lay that day. 

. 4 ^. 

Song of the Starling 

“Ho-ho ! Efoihee-heeo !” 

4 ^. 

The Pear Tree 

Set to music for songvoice and piano 
by Eduard Herrmann. 

4 ^. 

There stood on the green, a-blooming in 
May, 

a pear tree, so snow-white it shone, 
and many a time I wended my way 
thereto with my sweetheart alone. 

A starling high up was whistling its best, 
as if this life were but a play; 
the singer’s mate hatched eggs in the 
nest, 

no wonder he whistled so cheerful and 
gay. 

Oh, many a time in the midst of life’s 
noise 

I dream of the tree on the Green, 
the starling I hear, its jubilant voice — 
where are the glad times that have been V 


Song of Spring 

Set to music for songvoice and piano 
by Eugen Haile. 

4 ^. 

When the young Spring’s breeze begins 
to sing, 

silver bells with sweetest love-notes ring, 
when the robin whistles from the tree, 
then does Life awake and shout with 
glee. 

Golden wings it spreads and flies away 
into worlds of wonders, beckoning gay, 
into sunshine-countries, happy, free. 

0 glad Life, I shall your comrade be! 

4^. 


Two finches on a fir-tree bough 

Set to music for songvoice and piano 
by Eduard Herrmann. 


Sit two finches high on a fir-tree bough, 
have forgot the world in sweet love’s 
glow; 

closely, breast to breast, sits the dream- 
ing pair 

in the woods, so still in summer air. 

And a wand’rer thinks, with his heart 
at ache, 

how so fair sweet love the world can 
make ; 

he can ne’er foget yon gone summer 
day 

and the woods asleep in twilight’s play. 

4- i o\ 



< 20 * 



Tlie 

Song of tlie Bubbling Brook 



By Win. Benignus 



A bonnie lassie my heart had wen, 
she came from my native country, my own; 
her eyes were so sunny, so rich her curls, 
the loveliest was she of all the girls; 

aye, she sang like a lusty, bubbling brook, 
her entrancing smile the hearts captive took. 

She was a fairy with dancing feet; 
she was my souls queen, so bright and sweet. 
Where is my queen now, with beauty blessed? 
Alas, my sweetheart has gone to rest. 

And over her, forming a blossom-bower, 
red roses send forth a perfume-shower. 

Blow gently, gently, warm summer wind, 
and touch this sod with caresses kind; 
your sweetest of melodies, loud and clear, 
in the golden sunshine fling, birdies, here, 
and send her a greeting to heaven above. 
Good night, gold-heart! Sleep softly, my love. 





The Sleeping Mountain Giant 

By Wm. Benignus 

The Giant dreams in a deep, deep sleep 
of times that have long, long been; 
while on his outstretched body steep 
the woods grow, dark and green. 

And while he dreams of the times of yore, 
of a love which he tries to find, 
a cloud woman from sky's dark shore 
. soars up in a mighty wind. 

Draws nigh, comes close and bends her down 
to the sleeping Giant’s head; 
her trailing tresses of sombre brown 
sweep the sleeping Giant’s bed. 

And she kisses him like a seething flame, 
by the lightning’s blue-white flare, 
while the thunders roar and the Giant’s frame 
doth quake neath her fiery stare. 

Aye, he seems to stir and he seems to sigh, 
as if from his sleep he’d wake, 
his wild cloud-love, he feels so nigh, 
in his Titan arms to take. 

But with showers of tears she wanes and dies 
in a storm of blinding rain, 
while the Mountain Giant shakes and sighs 
and falls to sleep again. 

The sun appears in radiance fair, 
sends down his golden beams, 
while, stretched full length in God’s free air, 
the Giant sleeps and dreams. 


Note: — The Sleeping Mountain Giant is also called the Man in the 
Mountain. If you travel by steamer up or down the Hudson, the best 
view of the Mountain Giant is obtained between Germantown Station 
and Germantown Dock, three miles to the north, and below Kingston. 
He can be traced by the following outlines: The peak to the south is 
the knee, the next to the north is the breast, and two or three above 
this is the chin, the nose and the forehead. 

Another Sleeping Mountain Giant is The Sleeping Mountain Giant of 
Mount Carmel , near New Haven, Conn. 


The Isle of Regret 

By Wm. Benignus 

On wings of thought I sailed away, 
and soon I came to reach 
a wonder isle, which glistening lay 
with crescent silver-beach. 

The sea, a dream of ultramarine, 
lay waiting, longing fain 
to embrace the sky of mild carmine 
which mirrored in the main. 

A soft breeze blew and kissed the sand, 
then flew up to the trees 
of this lone isle, this spirit land, 
which but the seer sees. 

From bowers of leaves the evening dew 
like drops of diamonds fell, 
sweet-throated birds of rainbow hue 
gave sound like golden bell. 

Gigantic rose an orange-moon 
where sky and water met, 
strange shadows, each a mystic rune, 
their weaving magic spread. 

On towering rock, lapped by the tide, 
built of white marble stone, 
with bastions broad and portals wide 
a splendid castle shone. 

The portals opened, in a row, 
while down the full moon smiled, 
in measured thread with whispers low 
a spirit company filed. 

Above them, like a black threat soars, 
which from the abyss sped, 
flew round and round with croakings hoarse 
the demons of regret. 

In never-ceasing, tireless flight 
they followed like a curse. 

The spirits sang, as lost souls might, 
a song of vain remorse. 

Full strong a proud, majestic one 
struck on a harp a chord, 
which rose, a flaming orison, 
to God, the highest Lord. 

Thru silver-clouds His face gleamed out, 
the Lord’s o’er life and death, 
in glory His still face gleamed out. 

He spoke with tempest’s breath. 

The words His Voice was speaking there 
the prophet well may tell, 
for hopes it gav , where none first were, 
and lifted up from hell- 


I 


The Words of the Voice 


; 


“Thou didst not see my high design, 

thou didst not fathom me, 

thou hadst no trust in me, 

thou didst loose courage, didst destroy 

the work of me and thee. 

For I am the Lord of Earth and Heaven, 
for I am Love and Light. 

Spirit, rejoice! I break thy chains. 

Be free from vain regrets and pains! 

Once mpre I give thee power of wings 
to soar to my clear heights.” 

% s|s sfe sjs ^ 

“Break the chains, which bind you, asunder, 
the chains of perpetual regret, 
be not laggards, but Children of Thunder, 
and my Battelers brave instead. 

Seek the Light like the flowers vernal 
which rise full of faith from the sod. 
Advice ask of me, the Eternal, 
the Loving and Living God.” 


This Life is like a Theatre-Play 

This life is like a theatre-play, 

a change of joy and sorrow: 

the fellow who is up to-day 

is likely down tomorrow; 

the one who walks on thorny road 

or lives in a lowly Ganges hut, 

may walk on rose-strewn pathways still 

and dwell in a palace on dreamland-hill. 

Purple and Gold 

On the Steamer “Chester W. Chapin”, 
nearing New Haven, Conn., 

Sept. 26, 1916. 

Purple and gold, the Sun sinks down, 
splenderous clouds his glorious crown; 
under a shining violet-sky 
softly the waves of the Ocean sigh. 

Dark grows the depth and dark grows the height, 
gemmed with dreams comes the velvet night, 
bright with hope from far heaven’s bars 
sparkle the jewels of God, the Stars. 

Wm. Beni gnus 


*24 * 


Shawangunk 

Storm Song 

Far behind I leave thy harms 

musty city, hoarse with noise, 
joyously I spread my arms, 

0 Sun, to thy light ! to Freedom, my choice ! 

Mountain Forest, organs peal, 

echoes answer, thousands strong, 
when, wind-swept, thy tree-tops reel — 

I list to thy song! I list to thy song! 

Stormwind, singing in the height 
gloriously, divinely, free, 
with a voice of giant might, 

I accompany thee, I accompany thee ! 

Wm. Benignus 



The Shawangunk Mountains 
and 

“Shawangunk Mountain Stories” 


Ahead of these, “Catskill Mountain 
Stories” I published, 1916, seven stories 
of the Shawangunk Mountains, a moun- 
tain range lying south of the Catskill 
Range and separted from it by the valley 
of the Rondout Creek . and Sandburg 
Creek. These seven stories I collected 
under the title “ Shawangunk Mountain 
Stories The well-known Poet and 
Author, Historian, Collector and Recor- 
der of Legends and Folk-Lore of Central 
Pennsylvania and the Pennsylvania 
Mountains, Col. Henry W. Shoemaker, 
wrote about these Shawangunk Stories 
(“Altoona Tribune”, Sept. 1, 1916) : 

“Nature fashions her masterworks fault- 
lessly. Religion can be taught by the 
study of the wonders of nature, of scenes 
that are an inspiration to human souls. 

The movement to preserve the old time 
legends and tales of our mountains seems 
to be spreading in various directions. 


Recently W. Benignus , a New York poet, 
has issued an attractive volume entitled 
“Shawangunk Mountain Stories'’. These 
stories were collected in the Shawangunk 
Mountains in New York state and all 
of them are intensely interesting and 
novel. 

Mr. Benignus is to he congratulated 
for his work in securing these old tales 
before they were lost in oblivion. Some 
of them obviously bear the touch of Mr. 
Benignus’ own genius, but the founda- 
tion of all of them comes down from 
Indian days. In addition to their value 
as folk-lore , a collection of tales of this 
kind has an added purpose in creating 
an interest in natural scenery. The 
places described in such a book are bound 
to be sought out by nature lovers, and 
in this way each locality will become 
possessed of a coterie of staunch friends.” 


The Spirit Lake 



the “Shawangunk Mountains” is a lake 
where every twenty-five years on a certain 
summer night a ghostly procession of spirits can 
be seen by privileged eyes. The full moon sheds 
its silvery light, strange and fantastic shadows 
weave and. waver, the winds are hushed and silent, 
the mirror of the lake is smooth and motionless 
while the spirits walk around the shimmering 
waters three times and whisper and sigh and sing 
softly. If you listen closely you can hear them 
sing this 


SONG OF LOST LOVE 

‘‘True love flows deep as a river flows, but love means 
many a thing! 

It can be compared to a floating rose which the waves to 
the deep sea swing. 

“Love leads you sometimes to sunlit skies where in glory 
redeemed souls dwell ; 

it brings you to regions where pain-wrung cries of lost 
souls ring through hell. 

“The dewdrop trembles, a sparkling gem, in the purple 
flower’s chalice, 

and a sunbeam, which from heaven came, drinks it hotly 
.... — that’s love! — with a kiss. 

“But the love that alone will a long time last I compare to 
a crystal lake, 

wherein purest pearls of a happy past their rest at the 
bottom take. 

“And a shimmter deep down from its golden sands meets 
fondly the soft moonbeams, 

while with lilies white in their spirit hands on the shore 
walk our wishes and dreams. 

“And their eyes are turned with a sudden start to the 
treasures there, hidden long, 

and they sing, with sighs that could break your heart, 
of lost love a sad, sad song.” 


JUL 14 1919 



| r, 

I The Might of the Hudson 


Born in the lofty mountains 

from crystal springs, to run \ 

as bournes, where trouts are playing, 

as cascades, that pearl in the sun, 

forming lakes that lie dreaming | 

in solitudes of the height, j 

the young Hudson is rocking 

its waters, clear and bright. 

Thru flowering valleys 
the gentle stream is led, 

a warrior in the Highlands j 

he cuts his rocky bed — i 

where the songs of thrushes 

ring like golden bells | 

in the mellow evenings 
over the hills and dells; 

where rich berries ripen, j 

where fine cherries grqw, 
where in laden orchards 
grapes and peaches glow. 

A high wall rises abruptly, 
the towering Palisades, 

a longing seizes the river j 

to go where the sea-mist fades. 

The Hudson broadens his waters 

in solemn mightiness, $ 

he greets in his grand passing 

New York , the giantess, 

reaches the bay, the gateway — 

fulfilled the heart’s behest, ft 

in the Atlantic’s bosom 

the Strong One finds his rest. 

Wm. Benignus 

I 

i 




ROSSWAAG' S 
STUYVESANT 
PRESS 


25 THIRD AVE 
NEW YORK CITY 



